


The Red-Headed League

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I think of it as amicable, M/M, Romance, Sherlock Secret Santa, Story: The Adventure of the Red-Headed League, canon update, relationship breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9089968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: "It was in autumn about a year ago, back when I was still with Mary, when I had finally decided I wasn't going to wait for the text from Sherlock. They had been coming less frequently...first every week...then once a month...and now, it seemed like it was a rare event. Mary could always tell when thoughts of Sherlock were filling my head. I think she understood it all right from the start, reading those blog entries with that mischievous smile of hers, though I could never be sure. Anyway, I got tired of waiting, is what I was saying, and I was more than a little motivated by the thought of finding him passed out on the floor, either from some poorly-ventilated chemical or... something else."John looks back on the events that transpired during the mystery of the Red-Headed League and how he came to realise his future was not with his wife, Mary, but instead with Sherlock Holmes, in this ACD modernization.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Secret Santa Gift Exchange as a present for Cdngingergirl. I saw the name and couldn't help myself. I've been wanting to update this for a long time. I have actually seen the original artwork for "All Afternoon He Sat In The Stalls" at a travelling exhibit, and I have a bracelet that has that line in an imitation of Paget's handwritng, I love it that freakin much. Anyway, this challenge was a good excuse to dive on in, with a bit more Johnlock this time around. I tried to keep it as close to the original as I could, which is why there is a Mary, but there is no Baby Watson.

It was in autumn about a year ago, back when I was still with Mary, when I had finally decided I wasn't going to wait for the text from Sherlock. They had been coming less frequently...first every week...then once a month...and now, it seemed like it was a rare event. Mary could always tell when thoughts of Sherlock were filling my head. I think she understood it all right from the start, reading those blog entries with that mischievous smile of hers, though I could never be sure. Anyway, I got tired of waiting, is what I was saying, and I was more than a little motivated by the thought of finding him passed out on the floor, either from some poorly-ventilated chemical or... something else. The door knocker was tilted to the side and it was quiet as I turned the key which had never left my ring, so I thoroughly expected to find him alone.

Instead, I found him seated opposite a man with fiery red hair and a flushed face, who looked embarrassed that I had entered the room. My first instinct was to turn and leave, as if I had caught Sherlock in some private conversation, rather than what was clearly just the start of a new case.

Sherlock leaped toward me and grabbed my sleeve. "John. Your timing is perfect!" He beamed, glanced quickly for a chair, and finding none handy shooed the man out of mine and gestured for him to use the sofa. "It looks like you are busy," I stammered. The man looked even more embarrassed at the switch in seating arrangements, but Sherlock ignored it. "I am. Sit." I did. 

"I'm sure you recognise Dr John Watson. A rather useful addition to your case, you are quite fortunate, Mr Jabez." The man nodded and seemed a bit more comfortable. "You just may find yourself the subject of one of John's famous blog entries."

Jabez straightened himself up and looked encouraged by the thought. It had been ages since I had written anything at all, though. "It would be fascinating to see what _spin_ he puts on it." The final word clipped just a bit. Same old Sherlock, then. He leaned back into his chair, placing his long fingers together under his chin. I found myself feeling more fond than annoyed, but the balance was just as precarious as it had ever been. 

"I try to keep to the facts of the case and still make it entertaining enough for people to actually want to read the thing," I offered as a vague sort of defense.

"Remember when you last joined me, .and I had said you didn't need to romanticise for interest because truth is always far more engaging-- in its purest form. Complicated, but interesting."

I remembered the conversation all too well. I had thought that the whole 'truth is stranger than fiction' idea was sort of becoming a symbol for my life-- torn between a retired assassin who seemed more than a bit restless playing house with me, and the brilliant man in front of me who I kept running back to. He had tried to avoid me, and I him--giving each other carefully constructed, deliberate space.( At the time, I kept telling myself it wasn't romantic...oh no, of course not... it was just-- yes, complicated). 

Reminded of all that awkwardness yet again, I fought another urge to leave, but Sherlock filled in the tiny, uncomfortable gap before it spread. "In this instance, I'm not even sure that a crime has been committed at all. But it is certainly quite the story." He looked at me to make sure I was staying put. "Usually, I have something similar in my experience to compare it with to arrive at the right conclusion, but I admit, so far this is unique."

I was... interested. I looked at the client again. I couldn't believe I had ever thought, however briefly, that this was for anything but a case. Even though Mr Jabez was puffing out his chest, sucking in his gut, and attempting to look far more presentable than he actually was at the prospect of being featured in my blog, his eyes appeared lost within his rounded face, and he artlessly pulled a crumpled up paper printed with the last gasp of a struggling ink cartridge out of his coat and smoothed it on his knees. I tried all of Sherlock's tricks of observation and deduction, and came up with bugger all, except that he was a pretty shabby, average, working class bloke... overweight, a tad slow, perhaps.

Sherlock saw me trying my best to make inferences and getting absolutely nowhere and he smiled. "Beyond the obvious, there isn't much to tell: chain smoker, started off on the assembly line for mobile manufacturing, spends far too much time playing online games and... other online activities..., worked his way up to a managerial role where now a rather poor supervisor lets him have the run of the office-- but they do trust him enough to send him off to mainland China to check on the working conditions at their new plant, so at least there's that."

“How did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he gaped. “How did you know, for one, that I did assembly work? It’s all true, I started out there, then I finished up school. If I get a university degree, they say I can advance to supervisor officially and get a good pay rise, so that's why I started lookin' into scholarships and such and how I found this here one. But...how could you know I--"

"Let us focus on the current problem and not list all the giveaways...the scent of your clothes, the way you position your wrists slightly inward, how you shift your weight from foot to foot, the style and coloring of your tattoo, and so on." 

"Oh, I see! I thought you googled me or somethin'. Not that you'd find much, mind you. Maybe looked through my pay stubs? Couldn't figure out how you had found the time for any of that when I just called this mornin'. Just stuff I suppose anyone could have noticed. If they looked hard."

Sherlock smoothed out his suit jacket and cocked an eyebrow in my direction. "I really should stop explaining things and just let myself be thought of as some sort of wizard. It would be far more entertaining." He turned his attention back to our client. "The advertisement, Mr Jabez?" He held his hand out.

"Oh. Here." He handed Sherlock the still-crumpled paper. 

**Red Headed League** @RedHeadedLeague -2hr  
Gingers! Bullied? Teased? Isn't it time hair colour helped instead of hurt? US offers only scholarship in world for redheads UNTIL NOW! 

**Red Headed League** @RedHeadedLeague -2hr  
Expanding to UK! NO COLOURED HAIR; in London; GPA above 2.5. Certified transcript. Two colour pics req– child and current.

 

"And how did you become aware of this opportunity? Unsolicited text?"

"Well, I saw it advertised on a website I go to pretty regular. Advert is gone now though, so I couldn't print it out."

I waited for Sherlock to ask him which website. He didn't.

"And you applied after seeing it advertised?"

"Not exactly. I...didn't finish school right away. Dropped out. I finished it up a few years back, but...no transcript. Just took an equivalency exam. I didn't think I could apply. That's when Vincent got involved. My new hire. He said he was sure if we just went to talk to the person in charge that they'd make an exception. I was ready to give up, but he insisted. Found out the office was off Pope's Court and practically dragged me there."

"Tell me about this Vincent....?"

"Spaulding. Vincent Spaulding. I have a little shop off Saxe-Coburg Square. It's not much. I use it for storing electronics. I do things like screen repairs, virus protection, memory upgrades. Sometimes I buy and sell systems, if I find good deals. I can't afford an assistant, but Spaulding came in with a cracked phone screen and we got to talkin' and he said he was lookin' to learn a thing or two about computers and he would help me out for free if I could teach 'im some basics. I wasn't about to turn down an offer like that."

"No, I'd imagine you wouldn't."

Jabez seemed to somehow miss the thinly-veiled scorn and merely nodded. 

"Do continue. When you arrived..."

"Vincent went in first and there was a man behind the desk whose hair was a brighter red than I've ever seen. 'Sir,' he says, 'This is my friend and employer, Mr Wilson Jabez, and he would like to apply for your scholarship'." The man smiled, tilted his head and stared at my hair for a fair bit, then pulled out a pair of nail scissors. 

"'Mr Jabez', he says, 'My name is Duncan Ross. I hope you don't mind my taking obvious precautions.' He snipped a piece and placed it in a plastic bag. 'We will have our laboratory verify it is virgin hair, but it seems, baring any issues of that nature, that you are an ideal candidate.'

'There's a problem,' I spoke up. 

'Just a small one,' says Vincent.

Mr Ross looked concerned.

'I don't have a transcript. I mean, I did well once I went back to school, and I had a GPA above your requirements before I dropped out, but...'

'Oh... I see.' The man was real quiet for a while. 'Well... don't you worry, Mr Jabez. We will find a solution. I wouldn't want to judge you too harshly due to the fact that you simply took an alternate route to get here... no, sir. I will give you an assessment test in each subject. And then a nominal assignment for a week-- just to test your work ethic and ability to stay on task. How's that? Fair enough?'

I hesitated. I worked full time, and any extra hours were spent with Vincent at the shop.

'It would only be for two hours a day, but you do have to be in the office the whole time. For just a week, mind you.'

'And the work itself?’

'Let's make it something somewhat monotonous, but still relevant to education, shall we? You can transcribe a ROM version of the Encyclopaedia Britannica into a Word document. We will provide the equipment and you can simply type the entries in. You are familiar with computer programs, yes?'

'Certainly,'I answered.

'This is just to prove your ability to remain focused-- often a prerequisite for a good education, I'm afraid. Good-bye, Mr. Wilson Jabez...and let me congratulate you once more on your award.' He showed me out of the room and I went home. I thought about it the rest of the afternoon, and by evening I was feelin' pretty miserable; I had convinced myself that the whole thing was too good to be true, some kind of joke. Or fraud. But they didn't have any info on me, so I couldn't imagine what they might be after. Vincent tried to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had just about logicked myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning, I was determined to have one last look anyhow."

"When I showed up at the office, Mr Ross was there to greet me and the program was already up and runnin'. He saw to it that I had everything I needed, then came back to check on me within the hour, and again at the two-hour mark. He complimented me on the amount that I had done, let us both out, and locked the door.

“This went on for a few days, Mr. Holmes, and he came in less and less. By the end of the week he wasn't there at all. I didn't dare leave the room for an instant though; wasn't sure when he might come back. I wrote about Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica. And then suddenly the whole thing stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“Yes, sir, and no later than this morning." He paused and regained his composure. "I went to work, but the door was locked, with a sign up. Here it is.” He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper.

**The Red-headed League is Dissolved  
October 9, 2014**

Wilson Jabez looked about ready to cry, but...there was something in the bluntness of the announcement and the ridiculousness of the project and...well I didn't even know why, but Sherlock and I, we...we just burst out laughing.

“I don't see what's so funny,” cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “Money's money, and if you can't do anything better than laugh at me, I'll go somewhere else.” He got up to leave.

“No, no!" cried Sherlock, shoving him back into the sofa. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world! But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. So what steps did you take when you found the sign upon the door?” Sherlock leaned forward, all his attention riveted on Wilson Jabez, who seemed quite happy with that.

“At first I had no idea what to do. I was stunned. But then I asked at the receptionist desk if anyone knew what had become of the Red-Headed League. She said that she had never heard of them. Then I asked her who Mr. Duncan Ross was. Never heard of him either. I gave a brief description, and of course she knew the red-headed man. It's a blessing and a curse, you see, to be so easily remembered. 'Oh, that sounds like William Morris, ' she says. 'He was a solicitor and was using the space until his new office was ready. They are on ...let's see...' She looked down at a notepad. '17 King Edward Street, near St Paul's. He moved out yesterday.'

“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a storage facility for artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr William Morris or Mr Duncan Ross.”

I could see Sherlock admirably fighting back another fit of laughter. He clenched the edge of the chair tightly. I, myself, got up and walked to the kitchen to keep my self control. “And what did you do next?” he asked.

“I went home. Vincent suggested I send off a complaint to the Twitter address, but it wasn't active. I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were needin' it, so I came right away.”

“That was wise,” said Sherlock. “Your case is remarkable. I'm happy to look into it. And from what you have told me, I think that it is possible something even more grave lurks beneath the surface.”

“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez. "I've lost a full scholarship!"

“But you have at least gained very precise, if not entirely practical, knowledge on nearly every subject which begins with the letter A." He smiled, softening a bit and then looked at Jabez with complete dedication snd sincerity. "Mr Jabez, I shall endeavour to clear it all up for you. But, first, one or two questions. This assistant of yours who redirected your attention to the advertisement—how long has he been with you?"

“About a month.”

“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

“Small, stout, dark hair, clean-shaven, very quick in his ways. And he has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”

Holmes straightened himself in his chair. “I thought as much." Wilson looked less stunned than when Sherlock had deduced him, convinced this time that it was just an exaggeration, but I knew better...and damn near let my jaw hit the floor. He must have already suspected a particular man. “Have you ever noticed if his ears were pierced?”

“Yes, sir.” That bit actually did surprise Jabez. He fell silent.

“Hmmmm!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He's still with you?”

“Yes. I just left him.”

“And has your business been well-attended-to in your absence?”

“Nothing to complain of. There’s never very much to do except run an occasional virus scan.”

“That will do, Mr. Jabez. I shall be happy to give you my opinion in a day or two. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.” He guided him out.

“So, John, what do you make of it all?”

“Nothing,” I answered frankly. “It's a mystery to me." 

“As a rule, the more bizarre a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are truly puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. I'll have to start right away.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Think,” he answered. “Don't speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his nose, and sat with his eyes closed. I could wait an hour. I actually thought he had fallen asleep, and I was feeling pretty drowsy myself from simply watching him, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair like a man who had made up his mind. I expected to hear some pronouncement of guilt, but instead he cried out, "Steven Nachmanovich!" and flailed his legs wildly before planting them firmly on the floor.

Of course I'd never heard the name before, and said nothing.

“Stephen Nachmanovich has a lecture this afternoon, followed by a performance by Garth Knox on viola d'amoure, at the St. James’s Hall,” he remarked. “What do you think, John? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?” He winked.

"Very funny, Sherlock. It just so happens I do need to make a stop at the clinic, though. Briefly." _And to see my wife,_ I had thought. _I really should go see my wife._

“Well then, join me afterward. We can have some lunch on the way. Nachmanovitch will discuss improvisation as a science. It is introspective, and I want to introspect."

When Sherlock texted for me to bring my cane, I admit I didn't know quite what to think. I still kept it somewhere deep in the back of my closet; hadn't needed it since, well, since the days when Sherlock was...still dead...before I met Mary--when I was alone. It turned out he wanted to use it to inconspicuously tap the pavement around City and Suburban Bank, listening for any indication of hollow ground beneath. Couldn't help but think that knowing that in advance would have been helpful, but he was still used to forming his plans within the confines of his own head and sharing them only when necessary-- or at some particularly dramatic moment when it made him look especially brilliant. Like right then, for instance.

There were tunnels. Under the bank. When I finally decided to flat out say I would prefer to be clued in on things just a little bit more, Sherlock smiled and said we were going to visit some nearby shops to look at men's trousers next. Silly of me to have assumed that meant clothes shopping. It literally meant visit some offices, ring the bell, ogle the unsuspecting employee's lower half, ask for directions to some place we knew perfectly well how to get to, and leave. Then he said something about waiting for a particular man so he could check the state of his knees. It reminded me of what he had said on our first case together.

I was as uncertain as ever about whether or not he meant for it to be laden with innuendo, but he laughed and I figured it was almost a sort of flirting. I think that was the first time I really thought if it that way, as such. I mean, there were other times-- other things that he said that didn't make sense in any other way _but_ flirting-- but I had done some sort of mental acrobatics and dismissed it. Now, I was actively seeking out those moments. 

Of course the real reason behind the knees thing was just to see if the man had been digging underground. And he had. 

Not that Sherlock wouldn't have been just as compelling without the flirting; I had decided that long ago, when I'd made a choice to.... I just didn't see it quite as quickly as everyone else did. I think Sherlock didn't quite see it either. Not yet, at least. That understanding would still be another year off for me, and Sherlock claims he didn't know until after the whole Devil's Foot Root Case that I felt that way about him too. I believe that. I'm pretty good at hiding things from other people, so long as I am hiding them from myself as well.

"That man is the fourth smartest in London, and as for daring...possibly the third. Of course we have crossed paths already.”

“Apparently. So the assistant is very tied up in this whole thing. What did you see?"

“What I expected to see.”

I asked for more details, but he simply claimed this wasn't time for talk-- that we were spies in enemy territory. We turned round the corner of the quiet and dingy Saxe-Coburg Square and I was startled to find a swarm of pedestrians with fine shops and stately business premises lining the street on either side.

“Let me see,” said Sherlock, standing at the corner and glancing along the row of business, “I want to remember the order of the buildings here. It has changed slightly." _From when you were dead,_ I added mentally. "There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s. That takes us right on to the other block. And now, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony-- with a distinct lack of red-headed clients."

All the afternoon he sat in the stalls, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music. The lecture was a bit kooky yet still managed to be pretentious, with its odd analysis of how every life-moment requires observation and attention and the way we react is actually form of improvisation. I got little out of it. I half expected Sherlock to debate him on some aspect of the lecture-- which went so far as to claim violin improvisation relied heavily on the scientific method-- but instead, Sherlock seemed to be quietly waiting for the more musical aspect of the performance. When the violinist...the viola d'amorist?... began, it was at times brash and completely discordant, and at times sublime and more beautiful than I ever imagined. It reminded me of Sherlock himself.

I turned to watch his reaction. He had a gentle smile and his languid, dreamy eyes were as far as you could get from those of Sherlock Holmes, the relentless tracker of this morning. It wasn't the first time I was struck by his dual nature, swinging abruptly between complete inactivity and all-consuming energy. For days on end, he would just lounge in his chair (sometimes with his own version of musical improvisations, but more often than not just sitting there) until the game was, in fact, on, and then his brilliance would rise to the level of perfect intuition. It was quite a lot like the wizard image he mentioned considering cultivating. And as I watched him that afternoon, so enraptured in the music at St. James’s Hall, I felt a deep sense of foreboding on behalf of whoever it was behind this. Once Sherlock switched gears again, recharged... well... someone was about to have a very bad time of it.

“You want to go home, no doubt,” he remarked as the program ended.

“Yes, it would be a good idea.”

“This business at Saxe-Coburg Square is serious. I have every reason to believe that we'll arrive just in time to stop it, but," he threw his hands in the air dramatically, "Saturday! That makes things rather complicated. I need your help tonight.”

"When?”

“Ten will be early enough.”

“Ten, then."

“It could be dangerous. Bring a weapon.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the crowd. 

I was alone again. But I was headed back home. I know I am no more dense than the rest of the planet, but nothing can make me feel more stupid than a day with Sherlock. I heard what he had heard, I saw what he saw, and yet at the end of it all he knew not only what had happened but what was _about_ to happen, while to me the whole thing was still confusing as hell. As I headed back to Kensington, I realised it wasn't just the case that was confusing. Sherlock made me feel like an idiot on the regular. And yet, here I was. Maybe I just liked feeling like an idiot. 

Where were we going, and what were we going to do there? I had been given the suggestion that this assistant might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave up and made an effort to put it all aside until night time. Mary and I had a quiet dinner. She made a roast chicken and baked some dinner rolls while I boiled some potatoes. She had made a salad earlier. It was nice, just sitting together at the table, eating a well-balanced meal in comfortable silence. After dinner, she said she thought she might be coming down with a cold. I offered to make her some tea with honey and lemon, and she said she would just make some for herself later.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the park, through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two cabs were idling outside, and as I entered the building I heard the sound of voices from above. Sherlock was in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones of NSY (who Sherlock thought little of on a professional level, but did find reasonably brave and tenacious) and the other man, Mr Merryweather-- as was explained to me on the cab ride-- turned out to be the president of City and Suburban Bank. We were after John Clay, the murderer, thief, and forger.

Spending hours in the dark in the basement level of a bank along with Merryweather and Jones was not exactly what I would call fun, and the 'hurry up and wait' aspect of it all reminded me far too much of my manoeuvres in Afghanistan. Sherlock insisted on quiet, a concept Merryweather seemed to have a difficult time understanding. I could tell Sherlock came quite close to leaving and letting the thieves have at it once, when the banker insisted on thumping the ground to demonstrate just how secure the facility supposedly was. Fortunately is was early yet, and Sherlock quietly and efficiently berated him and he was banished to a box in the far corner. All I could do was sit in the dark and think. 

I would be writing this one up, yeah. Scholarships, artificial kneecaps, the letter A, the whole thing-- which I was told would be brought to its stunning conclusion with a man poking his fiery ginger head through the floor 'any minute now'... for the last three and a half hours. So, I was left to stew in my own thoughts, mostly about being alone in the dark with Sherlock and battling emerging fantasies of better ways to pass the time than sitting on a hard crate in absolute silence, waiting on a burglar, with two other people.

From my notes, I saw it wasn't nearly as long as I had thought, but it felt like the night had already gone and dawn was breaking somewhere above us. My arms and legs were weary and stiff from maintaining my position, and my hearing had adjusted well enough so I could tell the deeper, heavier breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, whistling notes of the bank director. Sherlock's breathing was steady, smooth and familiar. From my position, I could look over the boxes in the direction of the floor. Suddenly, there was a glint of a light. I aimed my weapon, Sherlock pounced on Clay, his accomplice made a retreat through the tunnel back into the house where a team of officers would be waiting, and it was all over.

I needed a drink. 

“You see,” Sherlock explained over a scotch and soda in the early hours of the morning “it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this scholarship proving ground must be to get this not over-bright man out of the way for a number of hours every day. The colour of his accomplice’s hair served as an inspiration. They put in the advertisement where he was sure to find it and encouraged him to apply, set up a temporary office--"

"And together they managed to ensure his absence every morning for the week."

"I checked the area. The store had nothing of value. The location, however..."

"So you found the tunnel. Confirmed they were digging."

"And when you headed home after the concert, I called Scotland Yard and the chairman of the bank directors."

"How did you know when...oh...they closed their League offices so they no longer cared about Mr Jabez's absence. They were done."

"And Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days to escape, so...tonight. Saved me from yet another rather dull evening. It's as if my life is spent in one long effort to escape from the monotony of existence. 'Whatever the tortures of hell, I think the boredom of heaven would be even worse', as Isaac Asimov said."


End file.
